


Fortune and Bust

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Missing Scene, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Predicting fortunes over Chinese following ASiP, John and Sherlock discuss issues that need to be dealt with before John can move in to 221B. Originally published in December 2013 on FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune and Bust

**Author's Note:**

> This story is entirely kate221b's fault. She wanted to know why, in chapter 2 of After the Fall, John was able to tell Donovan with such conviction that the Yard would find no drugs in the flat. This is why.
> 
> Thanks to kate221b and sevenpercent for laying eyeballs on this prior to publishing :)
> 
> In case it isn't obvious, the boys and their friends are not mine.

John hadn't been surprised when the proprietor of the tiny Chinese restaurant greeted Sherlock with a broad smile. He had been floored, however, when the consulting detective launched into conversation with the diminutive Asian man in fluent Mandarin. After they'd been shown to a table – no candle this time – Sherlock turned to him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Do you trust me?"

"More than I should, I'm sure," John replied, nonplussed, but smiling.

"Anything you don't eat?"

"Can't say I'm overly fond of octopus. Or chicken feet."

This drew a chuckle from his new flatmate, who turned back to the proprietor and spoke in rapid Mandarin. The little man nodded, his whole body ducking into a pseudo-bow, and headed for the kitchen.

"I trust you don't object to spicy."

"The hotter, the better."

A waiter came by a moment later with a steaming pot of fragrant jasmine tea, and a beer. John raised an eyebrow.

"Was it a stain on my shirt, or the tilt of my head? Or ..."

"Just a guess?" Sherlock replied far too smugly.

"You don't guess."

"No," Sherlock said, smiling.

John shook his head, smiling, and picked up the bottle of beer and pouring it into a glass while Sherlock poured tea. They sat in a comfortable silence, as though they'd known each other for years rather than barely two days. The last 48 hours had been completely mental, but John realized that it was a comfortable madness. He'd have preferred not to have had to kill the cabbie. It had been unfortunate, but unavoidable. Doing so had saved a life tonight, and perhaps other lives in the future. It was a decision he'd had to make before, and he knew how to live with it, though he'd never be exactly comfortable with it.

"Strong moral principle," Sherlock said, interrupting John's thoughts.

"Come again?"

"You," Sherlock replied. "You didn't take action until you thought I was in immediate danger, and even knowing what he was, you feel guilt for his death."

"I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to heal people."

"You're a soldier. You're supposed to protect people."

John sat back, meeting the other man's fiercely intent gaze. After a moment he nodded, then took a long pull at his beer. Further conversation was halted by the arrival of the waiter, who delivered their food and spoke to Sherlock in a quick but quiet burst of Mandarin before smiling at John and moving away.

"What's all this, then?" John asked, looking at his plate.

"Bit of a sampler plate. These items aren't on the menu because most Western palates can't handle them."

"Trying to see how much heat I can handle?" John asked, grinning.

"I've a fair idea of that already," Sherlock replied, picking up a pair of chopsticks and using them to point at the items on John's plate. "This one is duck with ginger and chilies, this is shredded pork with spicy garlic mustard, and that one," he said, expertly manipulating his utensils to steal a bite, "is shrimp in a black pepper sauce," he continued, mouth full.

"Oi!" John growled, though he couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's puckish expression. He picked up a fork and tasted the duck, trying not to groan aloud in pleasure even as his eyes watered. It was easily the best Chinese food he'd ever eaten.

They ate in silence, enjoying the burn. After a while, Sherlock broke the silence.

"How soon can you move in?" Sherlock asked.

"How soon will the flat be clean?" John responded. He didn't add any emphasis to the last word, but he could tell by the way Sherlock paused in chewing, expression flashing an odd combination of respect and indignation, that he didn't have to. John didn't wait for him to answer. "I don't have much. I can have everything packed tomorrow and move in over the weekend. Will that be enough time?"

"Yes."

"Good. That's what I'll do then. Get settled over the weekend and start looking for work at a surgery or an A&E next week."

"Dull."

"Yes, well, even with a flatshare, my pension won't cover expenses. Besides which – I spent all those years slogging my way through medical school for a reason. I enjoy practicing medicine," John replied, finishing his beer.

Sherlock grunted.

Silence fell between them as they ate, though it didn't feel as comfortable as the previous silence. John noticed that Sherlock had finished his shrimp, but was only picking at the other entrees. He didn't hesitate to reach across the table and steal a bite of the truly incredible duck. He could see Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards in response, and suddenly things were easy again.

When they'd eaten their fill and sat back drinking a second pot of tea, Sherlock cleared his throat, drawing John's attention.

"You have questions."

John nodded, sitting forward, leaning his elbows on the table and studying the man opposite him.

"How long has it been?" He didn't elaborate.

"Four years, eight months, twelve days, seven hours, twenty-four minutes."

He found himself unsurprised at the precision of the answer, and nodded.

"What did you use?"

"I tried it all. Mostly, though, it was cocaine," Sherlock's tone was bored. "Next?"

"The Detective Inspector. He said he's known you for five years."

"Yes. We met when I was using. I stumbled on a crime scene where he was investigating. Told him he was an idiot and directed his attention to the real murderer. He arrested me for 'interfering with an investigation', but he heard what I said. I was right about the murder."

"You solved a case while you were high?"

"Twice."

"Twice?"

"After Mycroft got me out of jail and put me through rehab," Sherlock said the word bitterly, "I found my way back to the streets, and back onto cocaine. Another crime scene, another bunch of idiots who couldn't see what was right in front of them. The DS had me arrested and carted off before Lestrade arrived on scene. When he heard I'd been there, he came to the lockup to question me, asking what I'd observed at the scene. When he kicked me loose he may have mentioned that having a fixed address, and a clean drugs test, might make it easier for him to find me when he had questions about cases. The lure of casework was greater than the call of the next high."

"I see," John said, sitting back in his chair and picking up his tea, watching the man across the table.

Sherlock, growing impatient under the scrutiny, huffed loudly.

"What else?" he demanded.

"Nothing else."

John watched the consulting detective's eyes widen in surprise, before they narrowed to scrutinize him in turn. He sat calmly, letting the genius read him. Given the amazing way Sherlock could find things others wished hidden, he knew it wouldn't take long for the other man to see what he was deliberately showing.

"Why?" Sherlock breathed.

"We've already established that I trust you more than I should. More than is sane, most likely. You've said that you're clean, and the flat will be before I'm moved in. I believe you. The rest is history, and none of my business."

John almost laughed at the utterly gobsmacked look on Sherlock's face. He had a feeling that it was not an expression the other man wore often. He smiled, watching Sherlock's smile grow in return.

The waiter came by the table and began clearing the table. The proprietor appeared a moment later, smiling as he put fortune cookies on the table and spoke to Sherlock.

"Xiè xiè ," John said when the restauranteur turned to nod to him.

"Bùyòng xiè ," the man responded with a smile and a slight bow, before moving away.

"The extent of my Mandarin," John explained, catching Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "So, are you going to predict the fortunes?"

"Yours will say something about persistence," Sherlock said, peeling the plastic wrapper from his cookie. "'Keep trying' or 'Don't give up' or some such rubbish. Mine will say something about finding true love."

John stifled a laugh at Sherlock's sneer.

"Let's see, shall we?" he challenged, cracking his cookie open to pull the strip of paper free. "'Remember, it's just a magic trick,'" he read. "Good to know, I guess. How about yours?"

John looked up from his fortune to see Sherlock frowning in annoyance as he stared at the slip of paper in his hand.

"This makes no sense at all," he complained.

"What does it say?"

"'Try not. Do or do not. There is no try.'"

"That's not a fortune, it's a quote. That's cheating."

"A quote?"

"Yoda? From The Empire Strikes Back? Don't tell me you've never seen Star Wars."

"The US missile defense programme?" Sherlock asked, tossing the fortune and the uneaten cookie onto the table and rising.

"No, the movie trilogy … Really? You don't recognize it? Darth Vader? Luke Skywalker? Chewbacca?" John replied following Sherlock out of the restaurant into the chilly London air and watching the tall man flag a cab down easily in spite of the early morning hour.

"Boring," Sherlock responded, sliding into the cab. "221B Baker Street," he instructed the cabbie.

"Star Wars is not boring," John countered, sliding into the cab next to Sherlock. "Wait, I'm not moved in yet. There are still ..."

"Concerns to be addressed, yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted smoothly. "However, it's half two in the morning, and Baker Street is closer than your bedsit. The second bedroom isn't ready yet, but you can sleep on the sofa for the rest of the night and go back to yours to pack later. It doesn't count as moving in."

"I haven't got any kit there."

"Use what you need," Sherlock replied easily, waving a negligent hand.

John acceded with an amused smile, turning to watch the reflections dance across the window as the cab manoeuvered them through London to Baker Street. When they arrived, Sherlock tossed a couple of notes to the cabbie as he climbed out, unlocking the door and darting up to the flat. John climbed the stairs wearily, watching as Sherlock disappeared. He closed the door behind them, glancing around as he toed off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat. There was no sign of the consulting detective in the sitting room or the kitchen, but John did see the kettle on the worktop, and suddenly decided that half two in the morning was a fine time for a cup of tea.

He glanced into the kettle to insure that it was free of human parts before filling it, remembering the jar of eyeballs Donovan had pulled from the microwave earlier that evening. Turning the kettle on, John pulled two mugs from the cupboard, took the milk from the fridge, and searched around until he found the sugar. He turned around and nearly fell back into the worktop when he found Sherlock looming behind him.

"Bloody hell. How do you move so quietly? And what the devil is that?" John asked, putting the sugar down and indicating the odd item in Sherlock's hands.

"It's a bust of Napoleon," Sherlock replied, rotating it so John could see the face on the sculpture.

"So it is," John agreed, puzzled.

"Here," Sherlock said, thrusting the statue into his hands.

"Oof," John grunted, grabbing at it before it fell. It was heavier than he had expected, solid, rather than hollow. "Um, thanks? Though as housewarming gifts go, a plaster head wasn't high on my list."

"I'll get you a real one when you actually move in, then," Sherlock grinned, nudging John out of the way to make the tea. "But that's not for you, strictly speaking. Not to keep, that is. It's for you to get rid of."

"You want me to throw away your bust?" John asked, setting the sculpture on the table and accepting the mug of tea Sherlock handed him.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's nearly five years old," Sherlock explained.

"Sorry, I didn't realize that Napoleonic busts had expiry dates," John replied.

"John. I made that bust four years, eight months, and fifteen days ago. His head may not be filled with gray matter, but neither is it empty."

John stilled, mug of tea at his lips, and looked at Sherlock. The other man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"You've hidden ..."

"Yes."

"Completely sealed, and covered in plaster ..."

"Yes."

"They'd never find this, no many how many drugs busts they staged," he said, then put his mug down sharply and put a hand over his eyes.

"John?"

He couldn't stop giggling.

"John?" Sherlock's tone had gone from mildly concerned to slightly annoyed.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, it's just ..." John pulled his hand from his face, wiping away laugh tears and smiling broadly. "Drugs bust. It's a drugs bust. Oh, God," the giggles came back with a vengeance. John put both hands on the table, leaning his weight forward and dropping his head to his chest, his whole body shaking with laughter.

After a moment, Sherlock's chuckle joined him, and John looked up to see the taller man's grin.

"I'll get rid of it in the morning, yeah?" John asked, trying to regain control.

"On your way to go pack your things and move in," Sherlock agreed.

"Yes," John answered. "Yes."


End file.
